Blood
by MarisaRoseheart
Summary: Entry for askbroodyelf's Fenris fanfic contest on Tumblr. Hawke confesses to Fenris that he is a blood mage. M!Hawke/Fenris.


"Fenris," Hawke says, "I want to ask you something."

Fenris rolls to face him on Hawke's oversized bed, tentatively trailing a hand over his friend's (lover's? He supposes they are lovers, for good now) jaw, feeling the stubble scrape under his fingertips. Afternoon sunlight warms the room, which smells of Orana's cooking and Sandal's rune dust and sweat and sex and _Hawke_. Despite the many problems in Kirkwall that demand Hawke's attention – Meredith and Orsino, for one thing, high dragons in the Bone Pit for another – Hawke always insists on having time for Fenris, and cultivating their newly-repaired relationship. Fenris can't say that he minds.

"Ask," he says, and Hawke hums contentedly and nuzzles into his hand.

There is silence, for a while, punctuated only by their breathing and the occasional movement from Orana or Bodahn or Sandal downstairs. It stretches so long that Fenris considers rolling atop Hawke and kissing him senseless until he relinquishes his question, but Hawke speaks up before he can.

"It's only…" Fenris cannot remember ever hearing Hawke at a loss for words – indeed, the Champion usually has a quip for every occasion – but still he listens. "I know you don't approve of mages – apostates especially – but you seem to have made an exception, I suppose, for me. And I was simply wondering –"

"Why?" Fenris finishes, and Hawke nods. Fenris tucks his face into the bigger man's shoulder so he can think about an answer without having to look at his expression.

_Because I love you_. These are the words Fenris will not say, only because he has given Hawke almost everything that he has to give and if he gives this last tiny piece he fears he will crumble away into nothing. That there will be nothing left of Fenris-without-Hawke, only this new thing he has become that is Fenris-and-Hawke and Fenris-with-Hawke, and if ever Hawke vanishes he will simply cease to exist, because _there is no me without you_. Not anymore.

And even though Fenris _wants_ that, _craves_ it, he doesn't think he's ready for it.

So he settles on something he told Hawke once, years ago.

"You are not Danarius," he says. "Nor are you Hadriana, or Anders, or any other mage I have ever known." He pauses to consider. "I have spent most of my time here in Kirkwall trying to escape my past – but it is not something that can be done so easily. It may not be something that can be done at all. And your magic is not something you can escape, either."

"No," Hawke agrees.

"You and I are not so different," Fenris continues, "and perhaps it is wrong of me to judge a person based solely on whether or not they are a mage. I do not relish being judged by my markings, after all, or my – past. You are a good and honest person, Garrett, regardless of the magic you carry."

Finished, he glances back up at Hawke's face – peaceful, but perhaps a little wistful – a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "What is it?" Fenris asks, well-versed in the many faces of Hawke by now.

Another long silence follows his words, and the tiny crease between Hawke's brows deepens. "Fenris," he says. "Did you – did you know I'm a blood mage?"

_Ah_.

Fenris had suspected, of course – might have even known for sure, by now, if he could bear to investigate. But he couldn't. Not when it might change _everything_. When the strain of _not knowing_ got too much to bear, eventually he decided that it was better this way. That if Hawke _was_ a blood mage he didn't want to know, because if it was a sure thing then he had to _do_ something about it and that might kill him.

Fenris managed to remake himself in the face of tragedy once. He knows he couldn't do it again.

"Not for certain," he whispers.

Hawke's grip tightens for a moment and Fenris can feel him trembling – and only then does he consider how much courage it must have cost Hawke to make this admission, especially to him. Then Hawke's arms slacken, and Fenris realizes that Hawke is allowing him the opportunity to run – to leave, if he wants.

And though Fenris won't (can't) leave, the knowledge that Hawke would let him sends a rush of gratitude up his spine.

There are so many things he wants to ask – _how _and _why_ most of all – but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is "When?"

Hawke lets out a great sigh, as if he'd been waiting for an outburst – which, Fenris allows, he probably has. "I studied it after we came back from the Vimmarks," he says quietly. "I thought that if my father had used it – it was worth knowing, at least. I never thought I'd use it. Only…"

"Hawke," Fenris says, a horrible pit forming in his stomach, because he think he knows and the horror of it is suffocating. The use of his surname makes Hawke stiffen but Fenris just looks at him, eyes wide. "When did you use it?"

Hawke swallows, Adam's apple bobbing against Fenris' wrist. "At the Hanged Man," he says finally, and then come the words Fenris expected. "Against Danarius."

Fenris remembers, for a myriad of reasons – not least of which are _Varania_ and _Danarius_ and _my name is… Leto? _and _your sister's a mage?! _but also because he would have died without Hawke there. He'd charged Danarius first thing without even thinking – and a rage demon had sprung up behind him and he'd fallen. Anders had him back up on his feet within minutes, but he'd missed the majority of the carnage – and if Isabela was to be believed, there had been a considerable amount of it, and all four of them (five, if you counted Varric firing shots from the top of the stairs) had been on their last legs by the time Fenris put his fist through Danarius' chest.

And now he's not sure which is worse: knowing that Hawke is a blood mage, or knowing that Hawke did it for _him_.

"I'm sorry," Hawke chokes, and Fenris puts a hand over his lips.

"_I_ am sorry," Fenris says softly. "If not for me, it would never have happened."

"It's not your fault," Hawke insists. "We might have won without it. Could have. But I saw you fall and – I panicked."

Fenris doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to say, just knows that the look of pain and regret on Hawke's face is something he never wants to see again, and so he wraps his arms around Hawke's shoulders and holds him tight, letting his lover bury his face in Fenris' chest. "It's all right," Fenris says, even though it's not.

He doesn't know how long they stay that way, clutching one another as if they might fall off the world if they didn't. Long enough for Orana to knock on Hawke's door with supper only to be sent away; long enough for the bedroom to be painted with the oranges and reds of sunset by the time Hawke speaks.

"You don't hate me," he says. It's not a question.

"I'm not sure I could ever hate you," Fenris replies. "Disagree with you, certainly. But never hate you."

Slowly, as if afraid Fenris might flee at any given moment, Hawke wraps both arms around his waist. "You said you didn't know for certain," he says. "You suspected?"

"I knew it was a possibility from the day we met," Fenris tells him honestly. "I told myself I would watch carefully. Then three years ago… that night." He doesn't seem to be able to refer to it explicitly, but he's sure Hawke knows which night he means. "I found myself questioning everything I had ever known. Everything I had ever believed."

"What'd you decide?" Hawke asks.

"I don't know," Fenris says. "I shall inform you when I find out."

Hawke chuckles into a lyrium-lined shoulder.

"You are a blood mage," Fenris says, testing out the words. "I cannot say it doesn't matter. Of course it matters. However… I _can_ say this." He takes a deep breath. "I don't care."

Hawke draws back from him, searching his face in surprise. "You don't mean that."

"I do," Fenris says, and is pleased to find that it's true. "I have said it once, and I will say it again. If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side."

Hawke grins and kisses him until neither of them can think of blood magic or futures at all.

Some time later, Hawke asks, "Do me a favor?"

"Of course," Fenris says.

"I'm a powerful mage," Hawke begins, and in any other situation Fenris would make some remark about his ego, but something in Hawke's eyes stops him. "Even without the blood magic. And with it – " He swallows. "But even the best mages can make mistakes. And the day might come when I slip up, and if that happens – if I lose out to a demon, if I become –"

"Garrett," Fenris tries to interrupt.

"No, listen," Hawke says adamantly, grasping Fenris' face with both hands. "If that day comes, and I become an abomination, I want you to – stop me."

"Garrett, I cannot –"

"You _can_. You're the _only_ one who can. Please," Hawke begs. "Don't let me become like – like those apostates we chased down or – or like Anders. Please. If I fall to a demon, you _have to kill me_."

Fenris' brands light agitatedly as he turns to face Hawke. "Do not ask this of me."

Hawke meets his eyes. "Fenris," he says softly, "it's the _only_ thing I will_ ever_ ask of you."

"I –"

"_Promise_ me."

For the first time in his life, Fenris prays to the Maker – prays that it will never have to be that way, that he and Hawke will live peacefully without the threat of demons _ever._ But finally he nods. "I promise."

Hawke sags against him, clutching at his chest. "_Thank you_."

Fenris cannot say _you're welcome._ And he _will_ not say _I love you._

He wants to.

Instead he says simply, "I am yours."


End file.
